


That Night, I Was Happy

by songlin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Praise Kink, Top John Watson, Wedding Fluff, Wedding Night, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 18:23:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3539426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/pseuds/songlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The door shuts behind them with a click. John locks it, looks Sherlock up and down, bites his lip, and smiles.</p><p>"Hey there, husband."</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Night, I Was Happy

The door shuts behind them with a click. John locks it, looks Sherlock up and down, bites his lip, and smiles.

"Hey there, husband."

Sherlock smiles back.

John leans against the door and beckons Sherlock towards him. "Come here," he says.

Sherlock comes.

John pulls him in by the waist. Sherlock's head tips naturally down as John's tips back and they kiss for the first time since the ceremony. It starts out tender, but chaste, just lips on lips and breathing in each other's air. Then Sherlock takes John's face in his hands and angles his head back into the door. He breathes out a shaky sigh that ignites John's core, kickstarting them into action. John slips his tongue between Sherlock's lips, and Sherlock lets him in. They struggle for contact, trying to feel everything and squeeze closer together than is physically possible. John's hands slide back, from waist to lower back—Sherlock shivers—and down, over his buttocks to the roundest curve, where John cups and squeezes. Sherlock gasps. He twitches forward, pushing the start of a healthy erection into John's hip. John giggles into Sherlock's mouth.

"Mm?" Sherlock grunts, irritated.

"You're such a bottom."

The two spots of color over Sherlock's cheekbones flare pinker. "Shut up!"

John grins. "Why don't you—"

He doesn't even finish the sentence before Sherlock is quite effectively making him shut up.

He keeps a strong hold on Sherlock's bum with one hand and tries to work the other down the back of his trousers. God, these fucking trousers. Tailored to perfection means no space to wriggle in a hand to cop a feel. He plants his hands on Sherlock's chest and pushes him off.

Sherlock scowls, which should be much less charming than it is. "John, why—"

"Take off your clothes," John says, with just enough snap in his voice to make Sherlock really hop to it.

Sherlock stops up short. His frown smooths out into something calmer, almost beatific.

"Yes," he breathes, and slips off his jacket.

John licks his lips and does likewise. Sherlock lets his fall to the floor and starts in on his tie.

"You know," John says, looking at the jacket in a pile on the floor, "that suit is dreadfully nice and dreadfully expensive."

Sherlock scoffs and tosses away his tie. "Please. _Do_ hurry up." He untucks his shirt from his trousers and toes off his shoes.

This is where they diverge. John undresses in his efficient, military manner. Meanwhile, he gets to smirk at Sherlock doing his slowest tease. By the time John gets down to his pants alone, Sherlock's still in his briefs and shirt.

Sherlock moves to unbutton his shirt. "Wait," John says. "Let me."

He steps into Sherlock's space and grins. Sherlock raises his eyebrows and looks pointedly down at his still-buttoned shirt.

"Are you going to do something, or—"

"Look at you," John murmurs. "You're too good to be true."

Sherlock's lips part, wet and pink.

"Couldn't believe how you looked earlier, when I saw you waiting for me," John continues. "You were right about the green."

"Olive."

_"Olive._ Made your eyes look just…" John licks his lip and shakes his head with a fond smile. "God. You're too much. I can't believe I won you. What a prize you are."

Sherlock looks away. "John!"

John grins and gets to work on Sherlock's shirt. A thought occurs to him, one that makes him chuckle.

"Stop that," Sherlock says.

"Stop what?"

"Giggling."

"You can't stop me. It's our wedding night."

John looks up mid-button and catches Sherlock's smile in the instant before he pretends it never happened. He grins.

"Stop it, you," John warns. "I was—just thinking about our, uh, sex holiday."

"Yeees," Sherlock says, clearly skeptical.

"And—how you get in the sun."

Sherlock's face takes on a much more cross expression. "And?"

"And—God, just thinking about Barcelona—"

"It _wasn't that bad—"_

"—and hoping to God I packed the sunscreen."

By the end of it, John is outright laughing. He covers his mouth to try to save some of his dignity, but it's no use. Sherlock purses his lips and looks quite huffy indeed.

"In that case, I can always—"

"Oh, stop it," John says, and pushes Sherlock's shirt off his shoulders, peels it down his arms, flings it towards a corner, and pulls his husband down into a kiss.

He's smiling into it, and though Sherlock is doing his best to keep up the appearance of being Most Highly Perturbed, it's a losing battle.

It's funny, the laughing, because it's lightened the mood without at all diminishing the warm, golden swell of joy in John's chest. If anything, it's all the brighter. He wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist and does his level best to drag him into that feeling.

Sherlock combs his fingers up into John's hair and angles his head back. John returns the favor, which makes Sherlock practically purr and melt forward into John's arms.

"God, I could eat you alive," John growls.

Sherlock gasps and arcs back, simultaneously exposing the long marble length of his throat and pushing his erection into John's hip. "Please."

John chuckles. It's a dark sound, weighed down with desire and intent. "Whatever you like. Get on the bed."

He presses a wet kiss over Sherlock's jugular vein and savors the feeling of Sherlock's pulse fluttering under his lips. A kiss like that has an effect entirely counter to his instructions, but it's just too tempting to pass up. That neck is pornographic. And neck kissing is rather a "thing" with Sherlock. John mentally reschedules "getting on the bed" until after he's well satisfied with cupping Sherlock's arse and latching onto his neck with real intent.

Sherlock lets out a moan. Unlike any of the noises he has made thus far, this one is long and low enough to rattle the bookshelves downstairs. John suspects it was a calculated move, as it's much too soon for that noise to have happened on its own. He's actually not sure he's ever heard that noise out of Sherlock when John wasn't balls-deep in one end of him or the other. Whether it's natural or no, it makes him seethe with want. 

John turns his head sideways, mouths down the side of Sherlock's neck, scrapes his teeth along the outline of his husband's collarbone, and rubs up and down Sherlock's arse until Sherlock is squirming and gasping for it. John doesn't blame him. He can hardly breathe himself. This is so much _more_ than he'd expected, more than it's ever been. Even their first time was more cautious, more timid. This…isn't timid. This is…the champagne singing through their veins until they lose their heads, and sore feet from dancing, and kissing in front of a room full of witnesses who were there to hear how much John Watson loves Sherlock Holmes. That kiss lit a fuse in them that's been burning for the hours since it happened. It's about time it went off.

John grimaces through a surge of lust and squeezes Sherlock's lovely, sumptuous arse.

"John!"

"On the _bed_ ," he says again, but he still doesn't let Sherlock go.

Sherlock, to his credit, obeys. He stumbles backwards, dragging John with him, until his legs hit the bed. He falls backwards onto the fine sheets. Only then does John let him go, so he can savor the sight.

Sherlock's cheeks are flushed pink from the champagne. The flush blossoming across his chest, on the other hand, belongs entirely to John. His hair is mussed and his pupils have bloomed wide, the irises only slivers of grey-green.

Those alien, verdigris eyes fix unblinkingly on John as Sherlock hooks his thumbs in his pants and peels them down and off. John licks his lips.

Sherlock lies back against the pillows. He angles his head, rests one hand on his stomach, lets the other curl by his face, and spreads his legs to draw the gaze down to the core of his body and his plump, hard cock, looking the quintessential harlot. _John's_ harlot.

"I'm waiting," Sherlock says.

John shucks his own underwear. Lascivious and unabashed, Sherlock fixes his sights on John's stiff cock as it bobs once before falling to a horizontal. John smirks.

"Like what you see?" he asks, crawling onto the bed to join his husband.

"Of course I do," Sherlock fires back. "I married you."

"Mm, yes."

John kisses him again, but he isn't going to be distracted this time. He's got things to do. Important things. Things to get. Things like…what, exactly? Probably nothing important. Mm.

Sherlock's legs spread wide to allow John more access. John's little, unconscious movements against Sherlock's groin turn more purposeful. Sherlock is already so hard and so hot against him. They could just keep going like this. It's happened before, the two of them abandoning subtlety and just humping each other to a screaming climax. It's tempting. But tonight is supposed to be special. They should take their time.

Oh! John was doing something. He sighs and pushes his weight up from his hands to his elbows. Sherlock whines and bucks his hips up to chase him.

"None of that," John scolds. "Where's the lube?"

That placates him well enough, even if he still looks cross. It's devastating, that pout. Doubtless it's supposed to only happen when Sherlock means it to, as a devious ploy to get what he wants. John knows better. It crops up all sorts of times on accident. John takes credit for most of those.

"Bedside," says Sherlock.

"Oh, prepared. Good boy."

John pretends not to notice his husband blushing deeper at that, just as he's always pretended not to notice how Sherlock's fondness for flattery extends to the bedroom. It'll be an exciting surprise when he gets round to mentioning it.

He fetches the lube from the bedside drawer, kneels between Sherlock's legs, and squeezes a generous bead onto his fingers. Sherlock shifts restlessly as he watches. His hand drifts down his stomach and stops to rest just short of his cock. John eyes it with raised eyebrows.

"Don't you be jumping ahead now, Mr. Watson," John says.

Sherlock grins. "Wouldn't dream of it, Mr. Holmes."

John presses one lube-slick finger to the very outside of Sherlock's hole. Sherlock's breathing stops. John leans in and kisses the breath back into him as he slowly eases one finger in.

"I'm not taking your last name," he murmurs, when he's buried to the second knuckle.

"And I'm not taking yours," Sherlock fires back.

"We did talk about it," says John, working that finger in and out and gently around.

"And we'll talk about it again later, when— _uh!"_

John smirks. He has curled his fingers, of which there are now two, inside his husband, lightly pressing his prostate.

"Sorry, were you saying something?" John says innocently.

"Oh, just get on with it," Sherlock snaps.

John gets on with it.

John's world narrows down to the slick heat clinging to his fingers, the weight on his tongue, the musky taste in his mouth, the rich smell of sex in his nose. His own cock hangs heavy and neglected between his legs. With every little shift of his weight, he feels it, and tries to set it aside for now.

Not for much longer, if Sherlock's body language is to be trusted. He never does need all that much prep. By now, he is not just relaxed and wet. He is writhing under John's ministrations, squirming back onto John's invading fingers and driving his teeth into the base of his hand.

"Think you're ready," John says.

Sherlock nods eagerly. John lets his hand relax and withdraws as gently as he can. Even so, Sherlock sighs with disappointment.

"Patience," John says, as he kneels back, slicks himself, and lines up.

As John's cock lips against Sherlock's opening, Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut.

"Beautiful," John says, and then, just remembering: "You good?"

"God yes," Sherlock blurts out, "do it, John, please, God—"

John eases in. He slips inside as if he's meant to be there, galvanizing soft tissue and peeling Sherlock open like an orange.

Sherlock gasps for breath. John doubles over and kisses him, which does a fair enough job of reminding Sherlock to breathe. He presses his hand to Sherlock's chest.

"Breathe. Yeah, good. Gorgeous."

Sherlock reaches up and brushes his fingertips down John's face. "You're so much," he says softly. "I never expected…any of this."

John understands. The emotion welling up in Sherlock's chest is palpable in his every strained breath and line on his brow. There are no words Sherlock can say to release the feeling that has swollen him near to bursting. The best John can do is take him and kiss him, and hope that they can say everything that way.

They lie there perfectly still for a moment and just breathe each other's breath. It takes time to are adjust to the connection, the spirit manifesting as flesh, their bodies joining the way their souls have become irrevocably entwined. The air between them is almost inhumanly hot.

Sherlock's lips brush John's as he pants.

"You good?" John whispers.

"I'm extraordinary," Sherlock whispers back.

John is chuckling again, somehow, with whatever air he has left in his lungs. "Well, yeah, but I meant are you good to—"

"John, please."

John laughs and kisses him properly, forming another point of connection just as he leans back and stretches the other nearly to the point of breaking before sliding back home. Sherlock whimpers into his mouth and winds his legs more tightly around John's waist. With one foot, he feels up John's arse and tries to force his pace.

John tucks his chin down to break their kiss so they both can catch their breath. "Patience," he says, with a cheeky grin. "After all, we've got the rest of our lives."

John shifts more of his weight back towards his heels and changes the angle for his next inward thrust. Sherlock gasps. John raises an eyebrow and grins more widely.

"Did I get it, darling?"

Sherlock just arches and keens.

"So, yes."

"God, _please_ , fuck me!"

Far be it from John to deny his beloved anything he asks for _that_ nicely. He moves, just as slowly and as deeply as he can. Sherlock sighs and tips his head back in utter bliss, baring the length of his neck. John presses his lips to it and kicks his hips in again, and again, and again.

There is a threatening glow in his stomach that, if he lets it, is going to unfurl into a bone-deep, teeth-chattering, very premature orgasm. Sherlock isn't helping. Nothing on purpose, but the quiet gasps and broken groans and full-body undulations aren't doing anything to stave off John's orgasm. He sinks in to the hilt, clenches his teeth, and bends double for a moment to catch his breath.

"Hold on just a—hold on."

Sherlock's breathing breaks in a vocal whine. He winds one leg higher on John's waist.

"Just a second."

"I want it now." And he clenches, the bastard. Squeezes down around John so John is smothered in crushing pleasure, that feeling of absolute rightness. Heat is gathering in his core.

John gasps. "Ah. Shit. Shit!" He tries to breathe slowly and think of unsexy things. Sherlock continues to _not help_ , but John did retain some scrap of military discipline. Eventually, he feels safe enough to breathe. "God damn it, Sherlock. I'm trying my best to go for the long run here."

Sherlock smiles. It's unexpectedly pure, which makes it terribly disarming.

"My dear John," he says, "we have quite a long run ahead of us, don't we?"

John smiles back. The force with which he loves this man is terrifying sometimes. At this moment, though, it feels like the simplest thing in the world.

"Yeah," he says. "Suppose we do."

They bask in that glow of simple closeness for a spell. There is something unique happening here, something that they may never capture again. They kiss it back and forth, savoring the sweetness of it.

But there is even more for them to taste. Each other, for instance.

John kisses him one last time and then falls back. "Okay," he says, and thrusts in with renewed vigor.

Straightaway, Sherlock groans through his teeth. John takes him by the waist so he can really pound into him, and Sherlock practically shouts with pleasure.

 Through the haze of passion, John realizes Sherlock's head is about to bump the headboard.

"Hands," he says.

Sherlock understands intuitively and braces against the headboard, which has the added side effect of giving him the leverage to really push into every thrust. John grits his teeth and moans.

It's obvious Sherlock is close. He can come untouched when he's in the right mood, and he certainly is that. All he needs is a push over the edge, which John is only too happy to provide.

He combs one dampened curl back from Sherlock's eyes. "God, you're unbelievable," he says.

Sherlock just whines and twists his head aside. John catches his chin and turns his head back.

"No," he murmurs. "Look at me."

Sherlock's eyes are still shut.

"Look at me, my love."

Sherlock opens his eyes and gasps. John is sure he does too. He felt it just as much, the immediate bolt of connection. There is something terrifying about being seen by another person, especially so intimately, when you're already so connected. In that moment, it feels as if there is nothing about Sherlock that John does not know, and vice versa. John could be flayed open for dissection and feel not half so exposed as he does now. This is it. This is the moment of perfect vulnerability in which a man could be irreparably broken. In this moment, they know. John feels the words bubble up in him, more compelled than spontaneous.

"I love you," he cries out, without looking away, "I love you, Sherlock, I love you, love you, love—"

Sherlock tenses immediately and throws his head back with a throaty cry. His cock twitches and pulses come over his stomach, over John's, and Sherlock shakes on and on until John shatters as well. He captures Sherlock's mouth and Sherlock devours his sounds of ecstasy as it rolls on and on through him.

Finally, it ebbs. Finally, they relax. John pulls out with a wince and falls to Sherlock's side. Sherlock sighs, turns over, and pulls John towards him for a kiss.

"Me too," he says. "I love you."

John grins. "Eurgh. Gay."

"If you will—I am trying to—"

John laughs. "I mean, it's good to hear. Shame if we got married and hated each other."

That seems to strike Sherlock somehow. He giggles, which makes John laugh, which makes Sherlock laugh harder, and so on until they're howling with it, hand in hand and choking on mirth and affection and the complete and utter satisfaction of knowing they've a lifetime of the same ahead of them.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a [Walt Whitman poem](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/180861) that is quite Johnlock, in my opinion.
> 
> Also, putting in a plug: [I'm taking commissions!](http://songlinwrites.tumblr.com/post/113746531866/im-opening-commissions-again) I'm headed to 221B Con this April, and I could use some help with costs. Other things I've written on commission in the past include [Katydid](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1200201), [To Worship](https://archiveofourown.org/works/690066), and [Satisfaction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/726021). So if there's something you're dying to see a fic of, hit me up! Throw me a couple bucks--as much or as little as you can--and I'll do my best. :D


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